


The Silence After The Wrath

by whosays_penultimate



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: One Shot, Other, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-23 13:08:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4878061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whosays_penultimate/pseuds/whosays_penultimate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will is badly injured in the fall and slips into a pseudocoma where he cannot move or communicate but is aware. Hannibal takes him out of the country, affords him the best care and visits him occasionally. Is it to comfort him or to punish him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Silence After The Wrath

**Author's Note:**

> While I was working on an ongoing fic, this idea presented itself, and I had to write it to get it out of my system. Just a quick one-shot. Suspension of disbelief required for the practicalities of getting out of the country, not getting caught by the police immediately, etc. Also, I take full credit for any errors regarding the medical condition, which I did an entirely too quick research in. Thanks :)

'Hello, Will.'

Will lies in bed, eyes open, but shows no response to having heard him. Hannibal pulls up a chair next to the bed and sits down.

~ Three months earlier:

The weight of Will is familiar in his arms, as he rescues the both of them - the forces of hell powering him forward with glee or the forces of heaven denying them a peaceful end? Hannibal will take either. The lull of the engine clears his mind as he drives them to an emergency room two states over, switching cars several times on the way. Years of hiding has taught him to tend and stitch his own wounds, and he does so this time too, with speed and efficiency, but Will is in a condition that he cannot fix by himself. He could of course abandon him but he doesn't dwell much on that option. He's unreasonably scared Will might die, but he's also afraid of getting caught. His mind sharpens as usual, when there's danger and the stakes are high.

'We'll have to get a hold of his family', the doctor tells him, and Hannibal wants to snap his neck immediately.

'He has none, I'm afraid', he replies, with practiced lack of concern. 'He's a drifter. I sometimes give him food and clothes. Haven't seen him in three years, but then last night, he turned up, badly injured, on my doorstep - it looked like he was mauled by a bear. So naturally, I felt it was my duty to drive him here. I'm afraid, this is where my duty ends.' He's privately amused by the truth he managed to mingle with the lies.

'He wasn't mauled by a bear', the doctor says. 'Those were knife wounds. But the most troubling is the head trauma.'

'Oh.' Hannibal says. He notes the doctor is torn between volunteering more information and wanting to see his reaction. His best bet would be to call the police of course, but he decides to play detective himself. Hannibal smiles, amused.

'As a result of his severe injuries, his body had shut down. He is in a coma. He shows no outward signs of awareness, although he retains normal sleeping patterns and has periods of open-eyed wakefulness. However, there's no apparent response to external stimuli and his open eyes cannot focus or move around.'

'Is he aware?' - is the first and only thing Hannibal asks. Not _how long_ or _is he going to die_ , or even _will he ever recover_ , just 'Is he aware' - his one and only question.

The doctor considers him with narrow eyes, his suspicion now evident on his features.

'It's very unlikely', he answers. 'He presents a lack of detectable consciousness. Of course it may be too early to tell. There have been studies, which deal with methods of detecting when someone is responsive to external stimuli in the absence of clinical evidence -'

'I am aware of these studies', Hannibal cuts him short. 'Thank you, doctor.'

He shakes his hand firmly, inserting a needle straight into his vein. The poison works fast. He locks him in a cupboard, after taking his clothes. He takes Will out of the hospital, under cover of the white coat of authority, and on a private jet to Italy, with Chiyoh's help. By the time the police arrive, he is gone and having left enough false trails to keep them busy close to home.

The private medical facility he checks Will into is equally known for the quality of the care, as it is for the discretion of the staff. It has the look and feel of a luxury retirement home, all reminders of death and decay carefully hidden and polished over. The only reminder that this is in fact a hospital, tending to the rich but hopeless cases, stuck in the limbo between life and death, is the nurses' outfits and the stark whiteness of the surroundings. 

A match for the blank whiteness of Will's face.

Under the care of better doctors than the unfortunate one who had the misfortune of meeting Hannibal Lecter on a really bad day, Hannibal learns that Will is in fact in a pseudocoma - the awareness which Hannibal sensed was intact, even as the ER doctor had denied it, is still there, Will's cognitive functions are intact, but he cannot speak or move, except his eyes. The condition is called 'locked-in-syndrome'. Hannibal could have named it himself for its poetic justice.

'I can help you clean him and dress him', he tells the nurses, once Will is settled. 'I don't mind. I've done it before.'

The nurses laugh, enchanted by him.

'There's no need, sir, it's our job.' And:  'He's very lucky to have you. He's a lucky man, to not be abandoned by his partner here. They pay for their care and wash their hands of the matter and never return.'

'Oh no. Not me. I could never abandon Will.'

The nurses think it's adorable and look at them with moist eyes.

The older man speaks to the younger in such hushed tones, that they can never hear what he says, but they are sure it's words of such love and promise that they can only dream of. They sigh happily that such a love exists in the world.

'I know you can hear me, Will.

And you have no choice now but hear me.

I couldn't have planned this any better myself.

But it's you and your choices which have brought us here.

I could choose to abandon you, like you abandoned me, for three long years.

But I won't. Just remember, always, that it was you who made this happen. All I did was let you.

You're in magnificent Florence, Will, and you can't witness its beauty. That alone is punishment enough, and I forgive you, Will.'

 

Hannibal presses his lips against the soft skin of Will's wrist, tasting him, inhaling his scent, under the sterile smell of the hospital soap.

'This is a fate worse than death, isn't it?

Trapped in your mind, no blessed forgetfulness, no blessed unconsciousness to claim you.

Because I know you're awake and aware and I know you can't help but hear every word I say.

You're all mine now. No resistance left, no choices remain to you, but to listen. You're trapped better than I was, when they put me in a muzzle and straitjacket.

This is the price of your righteousness.

You wanted to be rid of me, Will. You wanted the world to be rid of me. Of us. That worked out grandly, did it not?

You planned this yourself, down to the last detail, didn't you? Did you not count on me surviving? Did you not count on you surviving, broken but aware?

...Is your silence enforced, Will?

I don't think it is.

The doctors are clear that your speech function is severely impaired.

You may never speak again, in fact you're very likely to keep silence for the rest of your life.

Blink if you can hear me.

I know you can do that, the doctors told me you can.

You don't want to do that for me?

...No? Well, nevermind.

I know you're here with me. Because this time, there really is nowhere else to go.

So you're right here for me.

Locked inside your head, and my voice comes to you, right _here.'_

 

Hannibal runs fingers through Will's hair and down his neck like a caress. Kisses softly along the path of his fingers. 

'I know you can hear me, Will.'

And so, on and on, endlessly - changing a few words here and there, but the meaning the same, the same.

~

It's not the irreverent touches that Will minds, nor the enforced closeness or the minor liberties he's taking with his unresponsive body. It wouldn't be the first time, either. Hannibal's done all these to him before and it hurt Will less than betrayal, less than the poison poured into his ear - poison that tasted like honeyed wine to his fevered mind, just as he couldn't help but find the touches oddly soothing.

Because he can still hear him.

He can always hear Hannibal, even when he's not there, his voice a constant loop in his mind.

He doesn't know how long he will be able to take it.

He doesn't know what madness will taste like this time.

A tear rolls down his cheek.

This rare proof of responsiveness startles the nurses who had furtively been watching them. They gasp and call it a miracle.

Hannibal smiles at the offering and kisses Will's forehead chastely.

'I knew you could hear me, Will.

I'll always be here with you.

Even when I won't be, I Will.

This was your choice.'

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments much appreciated ~


End file.
